September 17, 1962. I came into the world in the usual way. I was a late arrival, according to my mother’s calculations. But I suppose right on time for me. I remember my young years as blissful. It is funny when I close my eyes and re-live my youth; I see it all in black and white. I suppose it is the photographer in me. Pictures of the time were black and white and developed in my father’s own little home studio.

I am number seven in a family of eleven children. Number three girl. The family lore is that I did not walk until twenty- three months. My mother called the pediatrician to take me in for this “handicap” of mine. Apparently, upon hearing this conversation on the telephone, I got up and walked. I suppose I could do it all along. But why? I had six siblings waiting on me hand and foot! In addition to the six older, I had one younger sibling, and yet another on the way. Who needed to walk?

I remember our home as a bustling “central” for all of the neighborhood to gather. It was the glory days. Mom’s stayed home, and everything was within walking distance. Our family table was always full of us, and extra people. My dad still had enough food for one more, and he never turned away a hungry stranger. I remember lots of laughter and fun. I remember older children taking care of younger children. I remember a sister who cooked o.k. and a sister who was a cooking disaster. I still remember when my paternal grandmother taught a younger sister and me to cook hot dogs on a grill. I caught the cooking bug, but my sister did not. I also grabbed onto the domestic chores, but again it somehow escaped this sister. Maybe she was on to something!

I remember our family being somewhat of an enigma. We were thirteen in all, counting my parents, and we would all pile into a station wagon. We spent summer vacations at a friends cabin, we sailed, we swam, and we belonged to a yacht club. We were not wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, but I never remember going without. Each child had a talent, and therefore a label. The smart one, the pretty one, the athletic one, the musical one, etc. Because we were born so close to one another, we never knew what life was like as the baby. The next one was soon on the way. The last child born indeed was the baby of the family.

We were taught to respect authority and to work hard in school. Music education was not an option, and each child had to try an instrument at least. Some excelled, and some did not. We sat down to dinner every night and attended church on most Sundays. Pretty normal. My father was a Principal, and my mother a fledgling artist and lifelong learner. She studied law at the nearby law school. Both sets of grandparents were a central part of our lives, as well as many great-aunts and great-uncles. We were well loved.

And then came the late sixties and early seventies. The Vietnam War. Young men were drafted in, and many did not come back. It was the talk of every town. Formal lifestyles gave way to free and natural living. It was the first I heard of marijuana, and it was referred to a lot. Apparently, a lot of teenagers were trying it; some even living in our house. I was the “observer and listener”. I never fully understood the conversations, but I always had an ear open. All I remember is a lot of anger in the world. Life changed as we knew it.

In 1973 at the ripe old age of eleven, I set out on a fourteen-month journey around the world. It was not my idea. Family friends had built a thirty-two-foot sailboat in their backyard, and when it was sea-worthy, set out to take it around the world. They had a twelve-year-old daughter and wanted me as a companion for her to go along. My parents were avid sailors and thought this would be the chance of a lifetime. I remember being confused. When they were a few months into their journey, I was sent to meet them in Pago Pago, American Samoa. My first time alone, and my first time on an airplane. I journeyed halfway around the world by myself. Upon my arrival to Pago Pago, I was thrust into a family life with dynamics I did not know and was unfamiliar. Suddenly I went from being one of eleven children to one of a pair. There were things I did not know. Things they took for granted that I would know. It was fourteen long months without my family, and it was hard. Very hard.

When I came home at the end of the journey, I came back to a changed family. Fourteen months is a pretty long time in the growth of a family. My younger siblings and I did not connect, and my beloved older sisters had moved on to lives of their own. I was rather displaced. It was difficult to go from being a home-schooled student back to a traditional school student. I had missed my seventh-grade year with all of my friends. Seventh grade is a year of tremendous change for girls. My friend that I traveled with moved to another school district and was a year ahead of me, and a year older. We both took completely different paths in life, and pretty much lost touch. Her parents were divorced soon after we came home. I started my eighth-grade year, but never really felt re-connected. My parents were always thrilled with my travels, and I was somewhat of a family “star” for a while. By the time I promoted from eighth grade to high school, I finally felt my old self. I had my music, and my friends and we were excited for the high school years that lay ahead.

Our family grew fast, and soon grand-children entered the picture. Older siblings started lives of their own, and those of us in High School were having the time of our lives. Just as life should be for a teenager.

It was pretty good. Until of course the day my father told us my mother wanted a divorce.

It was on that day that our family changed forever.
The day the music died.